


like oil on my hands

by keycchan



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, i mean it's only one throwaway line but better be safe than sorry, there's some boners in here but it doesn't get much further than that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-19 15:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11900280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keycchan/pseuds/keycchan
Summary: But it’s not like Hancock’s got a crush.“Yeah, of course you can. You look like you’ve been on ‘tats.” MacCready replies half a second later than he should, grin wide and eyes a little brighter, and Hancock’s pulse flutters. “Like what you see, huh?”Alright, so he has a little crush.— or.MacCready gets hurt and Hancock's there to make sure his best friend's alright.





	1. we do it all the time / blowing out my mind

**Author's Note:**

> OOPS here i am with a highly self indulgent maccready/hancock fic bc NO ONE ELSE SEEMS TO WRITE THEM and i'm focken mad bc they're so good together. they canonically are so supportive of each other. originally this was gonna be featuring both of them a _lot_ higher than this and making "brooo" jokes but it became this instead soooo maybe next time. anyway hop to it fo4 fandom give me more mac/hancock or i'll have to fill this dang tag myself
> 
> there will be two chapters, no explicit smut unfortunately but uh, there might be a nsfw sequel to this. eventually. i have so many irons in the fire, you guys.
> 
> THANKS if you read this, if you leave comment and a kudos my heart grows healthier, thank

“Aw, damn.”

The little tin rattles empty in Hancock’s hand. He growls a little to himself, tosses it over his shoulder where it lands who-knows-where in the room, and digs around his pockets before he realizes. All his berry mentats, gone. It’s gonna be a bitch and a half to restock, they cost a pretty cap-shine and it doesn’t help that they’re real tricky to find.

 _Ah, well,_  he thinks idly, frowning, before rocking back in his seat, the wooden thing creaking in a way that says it’ll probably be busted before the year is through. He’ll find a way. He’s been cutting down on the jet, anyway, should give him enough caps to spare for another tin or two of flavoured mentats. He just has to hit the Rexford later in the night, is all.  _If_  he even heads out tonight.

Turning to his balcony, the sound of Goodneighbour waking up to the sundown is enticing. Lights flickering, the streets coming alive, the pulse of people out under the moonlight the same thrum as the heartbeat in his wrists.

God, he wishes he could be out there instead.

In truth, he knows he doesn’t need the chems. He’s already three ‘tats deep, everything around him already in vivid colour and sound, but the sharp taste of berry-mint clacking around his teeth, multiplying every good sensation, is a great distraction from the glow of his terminal in front of him, numbers on the page that he wouldn’t even know where to start with if it weren’t for the chems boosting his mind. Ever since that whirlwind of a Sole Survivor had crawled out of the vault a year ago and joined up with Team Garvey, the wasteland’s never been the same — the Minutemen not just coming back from the dead but soaring from the grave like a damn phoenix, settlements popping up everywhere and pre-existing ones getting a boost.

He’s happy, of course, that shit’s getting better out there. World can always use less raiders, and a safe Commonwealth is never a bad thing. But more flourishing settlements means more trade routes, which means more representatives coming up to him and negotiating caps. Sure, he’s the mayor, and he’d kill for Goodneighbour again if he had to, gladly lay his life down on the line, but sometimes he wonders how much he’d have to pay to just skip all this bureaucratic deskwork. 

Gumdrops replace the mentats in his mouth, hoping that the sugar-sweet radioactive pre-war candy is enough to replicate the feeling of ‘tats under his tongue, and he gets back to work. No sense in whining. Even manages to get halfway down the request put in by Wiseman — Hancock’s all for the all-ghoul settlement, but the prices he’s putting up for tarberries is  _ridiculous_ even by Diamond City standards, let alone Goodneighbour — before he gets his prayers answered, and a distraction comes in in the form of Fahrenheit knocking on the door hard enough to rattle, and then swinging it open.

He hears her footsteps long before she even got to the door, though, so he’s less than surprised when she storms in. Swivels around on his chair, takes in the hard set of her eyes, the tenseness of her posture.

Her hand isn’t on her gun, though. He relaxes a little.

“What’s up, F? We got Diamond City goons at our door again?” He asks, lazily. “Tell ‘em to beat it, or put a few slugs in their heads.”

“I’m not stupid, John.” She answers, greasy strands of blonde hair falling over her face, her mouth never twitching up once. “Something else. You’re gonna wanna come out.”

 _You’re gonna wanna come out_. He frowns. Straightens up. Fahrenheit’s  _good_ , no-nonsense and no-bullshit. One of the best people he knows, a seasoned fighter, it’s half of why he hired her as his personal bodyguard. If  _she_  can’t handle something, it’s something bad. Or at least, something a hard stare and a loaded gun can’t handle.

“Don’t be vague with me, F. What’s goin’ on?” He asks, even though he’s already on his feet, tugging on his red frock coat, his tricorn hat.

Her mouth twists further downwards, her eyes rigid, and Hancock can feel a weave of dread go through his system. Doesn’t help that the ‘tats are making everything come to him in mirror-clear detail — the way she’s tense without reaching for a weapon meaning it’s something that can’t be solved with violence, the way her face spells trouble without any anger, the way she’s already holding the door open for him and her mouth opens and —

“Your guy’s come home.” Is all she says, turning to look away and out the door. “And not as pretty as he did going out.”

Something in his heart  _freezes._

He’s out the door in seconds. Not quite running but walking fast, only barely registering Fahrenheit shutting the door behind them before she’s following, not half as frantic but taking large steps beside him to keep up the pace. He drops down three steps at a time, can feel the fear dropping like a cold stone to his stomach as he throws open the door,  _did something happen, holy shit —_

The night is cold out in Goodneighbour’s streets, most of the heat down by the city centre where the drifters are gathered because people seek company and warmth in the same spaces, but he can’t really find it in him to care as he steps out on the pavement, breath fogging out in the night. Goodneighbour’s entrance is empty, save for the light of Kleo and Daisy’s shops, and a few guard posts that are — empty. Huh.

“Where’s Lee and Karan?” He asks, looking over the posts where there  _should_  be guards. “Thought they were takin’ gate shift tonight.”

Fahrenheit’s frown only hardens, and she just jerks her head over to the gate. “They are.”

As if on right fuckin’  _cue_   — and honestly, he’d applaud any other time, joke about Fahrenheit and her secret dramatics because her timing’s just impeccable — but it’s hard to joke right now, hard to even smile, when the wooden gate slams open and the two guards are there, hobbling in, looking worse for the wear and trailing red behind them like the freedom trail, one of them hunched over in pain.

And the man between them, slung with limp arms over shoulders and barely walking, is enough to make Hancock’s pulse stutter.  _MacCready._

“Hey, Hancock.” MacCready  _somehow_  manages. Looks up and grins, raggedly, weak. 

Hancock doesn’t have a goddamn clue  _how_ , considering the guy seems barely able to hold his head up, or even stand on his own two feet. And Hancock doesn’t even know how to respond to that — he’s too busy focused on all the blood, so much blood, the mentats in his own showing Hancock in high definition the blood running down MacCready’s face and sticking his hair to his cheeks, one knee completely blown out, what looks like half a fucking  _stimpak needle_  broken off and embedded in the arm where the duster sLeeve looks like it was torn right off — 

“He got chased by mutants.” Karan says, panting, sweat beading on dark skin even on the cold night, worry on his face clear as day, “We helped him out best we could, boss, but — and Lee, Lee got hit in the ribs — “

( Hancock’s grateful for a few things in his life. Sure, he’s an ugly piece of shit, but he’s respected and he’s got the charisma to make up for the mug he’s got. Sure, he’ll live forever and get to watch all his friends die, but at least he  _has_  friends. And yeah, his parents never wanted him and his brother’s a racist dickhead, but if there’s anything he’s learnt while living under a roof held by politics more than familial love — 

It’s how to handle situations where shit goes south. )

“Karan, Lee, head into the statehouse, use my room, got better lights there.” He barks out, brows furrowed, as Karan hurriedly nods and directs Lee to the building. As soon as they hobble off, he turns back to Fahrenheit, already at the ready. “F, go get Daisy and tell her to bring every stim and pack of med-x she’s got.  _Go_!”

Fahrenheit doesn’t say another word, doesn’t question or even frown at his raised voice. She just meets his eyes, her anchor in his rocky ocean, just nods and hurries off in quick, steady strides towards the flickering light of Daisy’s discounts, and,  _ha_ , won’t  _he_  have to get back to balancing out the books when he’s done paying for all this.

Doesn’t matter. Caps don’t matter right now. As soon as she’s halfway out he’s turning straight back towards the statehouse and hurrying in. The Goodneighbour streets are cold behind him, and the door doesn’t even finish shutting when he’s inside and running up the spiral steps to check for the worst of the damages, and ease the anxiety pounding in his heart.

 

* * *

 

 

“’m — fffff _fffffffuh_ , ‘m fine, Daize — “

The ghoul raises a wannabe brow, brown wisps of hair falling over her face, looking completely unbought by the words. “Sure you are, sugar. Now hold still so I can make sure you can walk without a limp tomorrow. You’re  _welcome_.”

MacCready gives an unhappy, almost bratty groan, and Hancock can’t stifle the smile twitching up on his face as he watches Daisy get back to work, re-examining the leg, making sure everything’s where it ought to be. Doc Amari’s good with working on head stuff, but not so much with the other squishy bits of human health. Daisy’s about as good as they’ve got here in Goodneighbour to a medic — you don’t live over two hundred years in an irradiated wasteland without learning  _some_  basic medical knowhow, even if you’re not the smartest person around. And Daisy’s very,  _very_  smart.

More than ever, Hancock’s glad she chose to settle here in Goodneighbour instead of elsewhere. She’s a good friend as is, no-bullshit but not unkind, and as of right now, she’s keeping MacCready  _alive_. He owes her a whole lot of shit after all this is over, and not just from all the stuff he’s asked her to bring over. Next time she brings up clearing a trading route for her, he'll take it. MacCready’s not losing anymore blood, thanks to her, after all. Hell, he wouldn’t even  _look_  at the papers to sign them.

And speaking of, Hancock’s more than relieved to see MacCready looking a whole lot better. The ‘tats still in his blood shows him how the guy’s several shades less pale than he was a half hour ago, lying on Hancock’s ratty mayoral red couch, eyes squeezed shut as Daisy feels out his leg tenderly. Daisy got him changed out of the bloodied clothes already and into a cleaner, ratty white sweatshirt and some jeans, but he still looks miserable. The guy won’t be able to walk without aches for another day, and there’s nothing to gain back the blood he’s lost except by waiting, but Hancock’d rather have all that than the other, deader alternative.

Seeing all that blood — Hancock never wants to see MacCready like that. Not now, not ever again.

“He gonna be alright?” He asks, leaning with his elbows on his knees on the other couch, trying to peer over Daisy’s shoulder, tipping his hat back a bit. He’d taken off his coat earlier on.

“So long as he doesn’t cause anymore mutie mayhem, yeah.” Daisy says, finally, dusting her hands, smirking.

“Not like I  _asked_  for it.” MacCready grumbles, dazed, still lying flat on the other couch, forearm over his eyes. “Not my fault that mutant hound snuck up on me.”

“The fact a  _mutie_  could sneak up on you says a lot.” Hancock pipes up, grinning as MacCready peeks an eye and glares at him. “Think you’re getting rusty, brother.”

“Shut up.” MacCready grunts, and Hancock only laughs when he gets a middle finger in return. God, he’s  _missed_  this. 

Daisy snorts goodnaturedly between them, packing up her things and adjusting her wig. “If you kids need anything, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Daisy.” MacCready calls from his spot on the couch, and Hancock can almost hear the  _mom_  tacked on the end of the sentence. The guy gets a pat on the un-busted knee for that, and a rare, kind smile.

“Ain’t a problem, sugar.”

“Yeah, thanks, Daize. Hand Fahrenheit the bill, yeah? She’ll get it to me.” Hancock nods, and Daisy nods back. Once she’s out of the room and disappearing down the steps, he turns back to MacCready, who’s gone back to putting his arm to block out his eyes, in clear discomfort, and Hancock would be feeling pity if he weren’t already feeling so much  _relief_.

Anytime MacCready heads out those gates on a mission, there’s always a chance he won’t come back. At least, this time, he did.

“You seriously got snuck up on by a mutie, man?” Hancock asks, still leaning forward on his knees. Picks up MacCready’s signature cap, lying on the table between them, surrounded by empty shells of jet. It’s rim is crusted a little in dried blood — he frowns a little, and puts it back. He doesn’t need a reminder. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

MacCready scowls, lifts his arm and glares at him, scooting up to sit and wincing in pain. “I was  _tired_ , okay? My contract was all the way up in Parkview Apartments, was like a  _whole day’s_  hike back, I’m already f — screwed up beforehand because frickin’  _raiders_  outnumbered me, and then right as I turn the corner for Goodneighbour I don’t hear the hound until it’s gnashing at my heels — “

MacCready continues on, half-leaning his head against the back of the couch as he looks at Hancock, relaying his little journey, and he says it all so  _lightly_  like it’s been just — just an  _inconvenience_  or something, an annoying one, but MacCready can’t see the way Hancock’s hands tighten to fists. Obviously can’t feel the way Hancock does — cold ice encasing his heart, terrified, mildly, because  _shit_ , MacCready was out there  _alone_ , it’s a long ass hike from Parkview back up to Goodneighbour and a bunch of different raider gangs, mutie camps and Gunner outposts in between, if a mutie could sneak up on one of the best guns here in Goodneighbour, Hancock can’t imagine what sort of damage a Gunner with a solidly placed shot could do —

“ — hey. Hancock? You alright?” MacCready’s voice calls out, and Hancock snaps back. Feels sheepish, hadn’t even realized he was spacing out and staring at the guy. “I’m not dead  _yet_ , y’know.”

Blue eyes are looking right at him, blue eyes like long forgotten summer skies, and Hancock pretends it doesn’t send a jolt of  _something_  right down to his irradiated little heart, pretends he definitely wouldn’t be blushing even  _if_  he were still a smoothskin right now. Just laughs a little, slightly forced, but otherwise fine. “I ain’t blind, sweetheart, can see you just fine.”

The petname sort of just  _slips_  right out there — fuck fuck  _fuck_ , Hancock wants to grab it from the air and shove it back into his lungs — but he just keeps smiling as casual as he can, and oh,  _fuck_ , he’s got to be imagining the way MacCready’s eyes widen, right? It’s gotta be the candles and lamplight that makes MacCready look like he’s flushing a little at that. Can’t be anything else, it ain’t right otherwise — but god, if this ain’t a good look on the guy’s face.

But it’s not like Hancock’s got a crush.

“Yeah, of course you can. You look like you’ve been on ‘tats.” MacCready replies half a second later than he should, grin wide and eyes a little brighter, and Hancock’s pulse  _flutters_. “Like what you see, huh?”

Alright, so he has a  _little_  crush.

He promptly swallows his next words though, adamant on not blurting out ‘ _all the time’,_ instead going for a casual lean back, channeling a relaxed pose even as his heart beats a little faster at the way MacCready just fucking  _looks —_

“So how’d you get back to Goodneighbour? I’m surprised Fahrenheit didn’t go running out to help you instead of coming to get me.” He asks, loose and easy, calmer than he feels, and he wonders if he imagines MacCready looking at him a little differently. “At least you got within Goodneighbour territory before you decided to get gnawed at by a hound.”

“Again, it  _surprised me_. And your scary ass bodyguard did come out — Lee and Karan spotted me first and went to help me, and then she popped up over the edge of the posts and started giving cover fire.” MacCready explains, shrugging. “Next thing I know I’m slung over their shoulders and being dragged back to Goodneighbour, and Fahrenheit’s disappeared over the post. Probably went to get you or something. What happened to Lee?”

“I owe that woman a damn raise. At least three.” Hancock snorts, and MacCready grins. As it stands, though, Hancock’d just given her his thanks, and she’d nodded in that way that said  _don’t mention it_  and headed off. “Lee’s fine, got off with a hell of a lot less than you did, that’s for sure. Bruised a couple of ribs, Daisy said, probably gonna be black and blue a little the next couple a’ days. Gave him and Karan some caps and the night off.”

Fahrenheit’s headed down to the Third Rail for the night, so he’s got Ham out on the posts now guarding for the night instead of Lee and Karan. It’s good enough — both Fahrenheit and Ham are seasoned bodyguards, two of his bests, and he trusts Ham with the gate as much as he trusts Fahrenheit to make sure folks don’t start shit in the underground pub. Doubt anyone will even  _try_ , tonight — F’s got an aura that can shut the hardiest raider up just by her standing nearby. Goodneighbour’s in safe hands, tonight.

And so is Goodneighbour’s favourite son.

“Ahhh _hhh_  god — “ MacCready suddenly hisses, makes Hancock’s gaze flicker back up at him and his body immediately straightening up, “Why always the  _leg_   — “

He can see MacCready trying to straighten out his leg, the one where the kneecap was blown  _backwards_  earlier, and Hancock winces in sympathy. Ain’t ever fun to catch one on a limb, especially if it’s the one you have to use to hold yourself upright. He’d know — he’s gone whole weeks without walking proper thanks to leg injuries before, and he’s not keen on giving it another experiment again.

“Need some med-x, brother?” Hancock offers, already halfway getting up. “Daisy left a few vials here.”

“ _God_ , yes.” MacCready hisses out, looking at him pathetically, and Hancock offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he picks up a syringe of glowing purple, and closes their distance.

 

* * *

 

 

“’nd they were like,  _you killed ‘im_! And I was like,  _hell no, he stepped on his own damn tripwire,_ like don’t blame me your raider boss is stupid as hell — “ MacCready tells, dissolving into a dizzy laugh, and Hancock’s grinning right back.

“you tell ‘em, man.” Hancock nods, and MacCready settles back down, a warm weight on Hancock’s lap.

He doesn’t know  _exactly_  how it got like this, but it definitely happened pretty soon after he put half a dose of liquid med-x into MacCready’s system. Not enough to get him loopy or too out of it, but enough to numb the pain and make the guy a little dazed, a little spinny. And then he’d sat down on the same couch, settled right down, had popped a couple of regular mint mentats he found at the corner of his table and got back to talking — and somewhere along the way, both of them on the same couch turned into Hancock sitting, leaning back, while MacCready’s pretty much half on his lap, head resting against the armrest and back solid and warm on Hancock’s thighs, lying horizontally across the cushions.

They could stay like this forever, and Hancock’d be the happiest ghoul in the whole damn wastes, he reckons.

Hancock can see everything from here. The mentats in his veins making everything come to sharp reality, light and shadow in clear contrasts, all of MacCready’s features enhanced. He can make out every scar, every strand of hair, the way the light catches on MacCready’s defined cheeks and the long curve of his nose, eyes dazed but as bright as the sun, the way that perfect mouth twitches whenever Hancock gets him to smile, grin, laugh —

MacCready’s gaze flickers back to his, warm and  _inviting_  and god, fuck, Hancock’s got it  _so bad_.

“You were workin’?” MacCready notes, half-slurring, eyes turning to look at Hancock’s terminal that’s  _still_  on. Whoops. Guess he’ll have to compensate for that electricity use later, there’s no way in hell he’s moving from this position.

“Mayoral duties. Can’t just be struttin’ around lookin’ pretty, you know.” Hancock answers easy, smirking. “Sure could use  _someone_  bein’ pretty around here though. Think I could hire you to do deskwork?”

MacCready makes a face at that, and Hancock barks out a laugh. “Hell no, I’d take another hound to the heels. My rifle’s not just for decoration, man, I’m not gonna trade it for some crummy paperwork.”

“Aw, what, me callin’ you pretty wasn’t enough to get you on board?” Hancock teases, pretends it’s not flirty at  _all_ , “Got you a pencil skirt and everything.”

“Hey, Fahrenheit’s a looker too. Get  _her_  to, to wear it — “ and then MacCready can’t continue, because they’re both hunched over laughing their asses off at the  _thought_  of Fahrenheit in a pencil skirt, hard enough that Hancock’s gut hurts.

Oh, but god, he’s missed this.

MacCready’s been getting steady jobs out of Goodneighbour ever since he and the sole survivor had gone out together to take out the Gunners in both Mass Pike and Quincy. Now that the target on MacCready’s back is gone and Gunner presence around the ’Wealth has nosedived as the remaining Gunners try to figure out the next line of leadership now that the big Quincy bosses are down, the guy’s been in and out of Goodneighbour a couple of times a  _month_. And he doesn’t charge cheap either, not anymore, doesn’t have to.

And it’s a  _good_  thing. Hancock knows all about MacCready’s need for caps, knows all about the reasons why — there’s a kid somewhere out there in the Capital Wasteland, recently cured and getting better with every cap his father’s sending his way, and that just warms Hancock’s heart so much it  _hurts_   — but god, if Hancock doesn’t  _miss_  MacCready something fierce.

He hadn’t been lying when he called MacCready Goodneighbour’s favourite son. Maybe he’s not  _from_  here, not even from the ’Wealth, but Goodneighbour’s fit the man like a glove since he arrived a year and a half ago, no matter the initial wariness. The guards admire his shooting skills, the drifters respect his work, the folk down in the third rail have grown used to his presence, some of them even eyeing MacCready’s looks. Hell, Daisy’s downright more or less adopted the man as her  _actual_  son, even if she doesn’t always show it. Only took a couple of months before MacCready started drinking with the neighbourhood watch and Daisy started giving him  _actual_  discounts.

And who can blame any of ‘em? MacCready’s so many things rolled up in one. He’s got a sharp mouth even without the cussing, all rough charm and a boyish laugh that’s downright  _endearing_  even to the harshest of Hancock’s watch, with jokes lamer than anything anyone’s ever heard, so bad that they’re good, so bad that it’s easy to forget that MacCready can just as easily shift, just as easily harden back into the merc he is. Can go from cracking a joke to  _focused_ , more perceptive than people give him credit for,  _smart_ , with a mouth that likes to complain but hands that know infinite patience when it comes to handling his gun. Can switch from a drinking friend to the guy with a fuckoff  _vicious_  look in his eye, because you don’t roll with the most dangerous group in the Commonwealth without gaining that. He knows some folks call him a brat — but no one’s stupid enough to want to be in his crosshairs.

It’s no wonder Goodneighbour’s gone and fallen in love with him.

Even less so that  _Hancock’s_  gone and fallen in love with him.

He was screwed from the start. MacCready’s all of that, all of that and  _more_. They’ve been friends ever since the guy first rolled into town a year and a half ago, desperate and dangerous, and Hancock saw his skills and offered him a room in exchange for a job done. And then they’d shared a beer, then more, then MacCready had opened up and they started sharing laughs, and fuck, how’s Hancock gonna say no to any of that? 

How could he, when MacCready’s smiled at him like that? When they’ve joked around like that, when they’ve huddled up together in this same damn room, surrounded by bottles of whisky and slurring their secrets out to each other? How could he, when MacCready’s got a body like  _woah_  and a smile that could power the ‘Wealth, when MacCready’s both dangerous and also kinder than he ever even knows, wary but doggedly loyal to his own? And then Hancock just  _had_  to start feel his pulse racing everytime MacCready grinned at him, just had to smile like an idiot everytime MacCready slings a friendly arm around Hancock’s shoulders, just  _had_  to go and fall in love with his best friend.

The guy Hancock deserves the  _least_.

God _damn_  it.

“How’s  _mayoral duties_  anyway?” MacCready pipes up from Hancock’s lap —  and god, Hancock can feel this warmth on his thighs forever —  airquoting, blue eyes sarcastic. “Got more chems funnelled your way?”

Hancock snorts, flicking MacCready’s forehead, met with a wince. “I wasn’t kidding, asshat. Actually  _had_  mayoral shit to do, trading up with Finch Farm. Also, I pay for all my chems, shut your fuckin’ face.”

MacCready rolls his eyes goodnaturedly, letting his hands drop. “Don’t bother trading with ‘em, man. Too many caps per tato. Get someone to get a trade line down to the Abernathy’s — ‘s a longer route but they take better care of their crap, they don’t get shot at by raiders every other week and they charge a lot less. Cut a deal with ‘em and you’ll probably have a few hundred caps extra to pay off your neighbourhood watch.”

Hancock  _stares_.

MacCready squirms, after a beat or two, uncomfortable, neck turning red. “What? I ran with Kai for awhile, I know some Minutemen settlements. Shut up.”

“Shit, man.” Hancock finally says, eyes wide, “Fuck everything I said before.  _You_  take my job,  _I’ll_  wear the pencil skirt.”

It’s enough to startle a laugh out of MacCready, and Hancock’s face breaks into a grin too, hard enough that his cheeks hurt. MacCready’s face looks fucking  _perfect_  when he laughs — and even better, here like this, because it’s always different whenever it’s just the two of them, just him and Hancock together, because it’s more  _open_. More honest, and the way MacCready’s shoulders shake as the guy dissolves into fucking  _giggles_  from the med-x makes Hancock’s heart burst warm something  _fierce_.

And then suddenly MacCready’s reaching over, moving to sit up a little, Hancock a little surprised as the guy gets to grabbing Hancock’s tricorn hat, and putting it on clumsily on his own head, mussing his hair a bit in the process.  _Grins_  up at Hancock, propped up with his elbow against the armrest, tipping the hat with his free hand.

“You can just call me Mayor MacCready, then.” MacCready says, smirking, cocky as a gun, words rolling off his tongue like honey, the name almost familiar in the way it’s called. 

Blue, blue eyes, the sky right there in front of him.

Hancock goes  _breathless_.

The sudden realization comes to both at the exact same second, he thinks; they’re so close. Hancock looking down like this and MacCready propped up and their faces are  _so close,_ enough that he can almost see himself in those sky blues, enough that they’re trading air back and forth between them, enough that Hancock doesn’t even need mentats to hear, see, every inhale, the way MacCready’s chest rises and falls, the details of that unfairly gorgeous mouth, enough that Hancock’s  _sure_  MacCready can  _hear_  the rapidfire thrum of Hancock’s pulse, heart in his throat and constricting, they’re barely  _inches_  from each other, if he moves forward, if he just bridges this distance —

_I’ve waited so long, never dreamed it would happen, this can't be real  —_

MacCready beats him to it.  _Feels_  MacCready lean forward, closes the gap, and suddenly MacCready’s mouth is on his own, and Hancock’s mind freezes and his heart  _explodes._

MacCready’s lips are chapped. Dry, but they’re the warmest thing Hancock’s ever felt in his entire fucking  _life_. Close-mouthed but it’s the hottest thing he can remember. Their eyes are closed and MacCready’s  _trembling_ , a little, hands seeming to be unsure of where to go and Hancock doesn’t know, doesn’t know any  _better_ , he’s frozen and imploding and they’re caught, like this, he’s been dreaming of this moment for so long that he’s never been convinced it’d ever come true, and now that it has he doesn’t know how to  _react._  Stock-still, until he’s been unresponsive too long and MacCready starts pulling away, half-shocked breath finally releasing over Hancock’s skin and — there’s suddenly a shocking emptiness, the ghost of where MacCready’s mouth was —

And Hancock’s mind just suddenly shouts, goes  _no, no, no_ , and then he’s moving forward without even  _thinking_ , chasing the traces of sensation MacCready’s left behind, and then he’s recapturing MacCready’s mouth with his own and — 

 _You, this, fuck, I want you,_  and there are  _fireworks_  behind his eyes, fireworks in the way MacCready’s mouth is  _back_ ,  setting everything in him alight, his heartbeat racing in his ears, making him feel like he’s  _glowing_ , and Hancock can’t. Think. Of anything else beyond this, beyond any of this, and his hands start to move, curling into the back fabric of MacCready’s sweatshirt, and kiss  _deepens_ , MacCready growing more confident now that he knows Hancock’s responding, and then MacCready’s tongue slips into Hancock’s mouth and his mind just  _shorts out_.

The hat’s fallen somewhere but Hancock can’t give a shit, too busy with his mouth on MacCready’s, mouths moving like waves, breaths gasped between every heated searing kiss, tongues slick and warm and MacCready sits up better, essentially straddling him, and Hancock can’t think of a single better thing in this entire goddamned world. Kissing MacCready is something  _else_  altogether, push and pull, mouths moving against each other, and then Hancock bites onto MacCready’s lower lip and  _pulls_ on it and MacCready’s low, choked  _moan_  reverberates through Hancock’s lungs — makes his heart beat so fucking fast he could be dying and he wouldn’t know, and he wouldn’t mind, twisting them around so MacCready’s back to lying against the arm rest and Hancock’s on top of him, moaning right back as MacCready goes back in, passionate, deep, and when MacCready sucks gently on the tip of Hancock’s tongue he’s half sure his lungs are gone, lost to liquid fire and affection curling hot in his ribcage.

 _You, you, I want you, been wanting you for so long, sweetheart,_ god, but they’re so  _close_ , pressed against each other, making out like it’s their last second, trading air like it’s all they’ll need to stay alive, breathing heavy and hot. Chests pressed so tight together Hancock’s sure their thrumming heartbeats are synchronizing, pounding in his ears, rushing and roaring, threatening to shatter his eardrums and make his capillaries explode and implode, every searing kiss threatening to tear him apart. MacCready’s hands are fisted in the fabric of his shirt, at the small of his back, and he’s got a hand cupping MacCready’s head and guiding it forward, breathless, panting, both of them, kissing heated, like they’re drowning, like a starving man at a banquet, like nothing else fucking  _matters_ , rocking together, and then suddenly MacCready’s hips move, grinding a little against Hancock’s leg, and the world  _stops_.

_Hancock, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?_

He pulls away, and — it’s the worst thing he’s ever felt, this is the worst decision he’s ever made in his _life_ — he’s breathing shakily out as his system’s already craving for more. Withdrawal setting in, arms trembling holding himself up. Something in his chest aching something  _fierce_  as MacCready’s eyes open up again, slow, like the way a cat blinks at you when it likes you, lips kissed red and swollen and glistening wet, fucking  _gorgeous_ , slightly parted, brows furrowed as he dazedly breathes out heavy, “Hancock, what — “

And that  _sound._ It makes shivers shoot down his spine, right down to where the arousal's pooling in his belly. MacCready’s voice utterly fucking  _wrecked_  like that, saying his name — Hancock’s suddenly,  _painfully_  aware of just how hard he is, right now. How hard  _MacCready_ is, against his leg, throbbing, and looking at MacCready’s eyes he almost loses it, his restraint almost snaps completely, the raw  _desire_  in there, and.

It’d be so fucking  _easy_ , to get right back into it, he knows. To meet MacCready’s mouth again and suck on his tongue until MacCready’s shaking, grind together until they’re both making noises that all of Goodneighbour would hear, until he makes MacCready say his name like that, over and over, make him scream it out as Hancock drives into wet heat like it’s only always been in his dreams that leave his mattresses stained — or even the other way around, himself on top and riding those skilled fingers, watching those gorgeous forearms flex, the shift of muscles in MacCready’s wrists as he works Hancock open for him, until they both come apart, and —

 _This is getting out of control, this is enough, enough,_ stop it —

“We can’t be doin’ this.” He manages, almost bows his head when he hears how wrecked his  _own_  voice is, and god, MacCready’s gonna be the death of him — 

“Wh — shit, sorry, was I — “ MacCready says, eyes going soft in a way that makes Hancock’s chest hurt so hard he can feel it down to his wrists, apologetic in a way that makes Hancock want to take back his words, go back on himself and just resume whatever they were doing, or just kiss him, slow and soft and sweet and  _loving_  like he’s wanted to do all this time, “We don’t, uh, we don’t have to, if you don’t want to — “

“I want to,” Hancock says, pained,  _god do I want to, for so long_ , laughing even though none of this is fucking funny, “But we can’t. Trust me, you don’t —  _heh_ , you don’t want someone like me.”

And then it’s just like watching a door slam shut. MacCready’s gaze hardens so fast Hancock gets  _whiplash_ , double taking as MacCready’s kissed-red mouth suddenly turns to a vicious, angry scowl, brows furrowed. Going from open to guarded in .5 seconds flat, and whatever mood they had was sure as shit gone  _now_ , leaving Hancock suddenly feeling like someone’s left the windows open and there’s wind chilling his bones.

“What.” MacCready  _growls_ , that dangerous look in his eye radiating  _fuck off_  vibes that Hancock’s only ever seen the guy point at stupid fucks who try to pick a fight with him because he’s scrawny, “ _What_ are you saying.”

Hancock offers a weak smile. Rises, sits back on his haunches, wishes he still had hair to rake his fingers through — and god, MacCready’s hair is almost sex-mussed,  _fuck_   — and laughs, but it’s stained with self loathing.

“Sayin’ you probably shouldn’t be doing this with a ghoul like me. Can’t go makin’ regrets like that now.” Hancock offers, grinning like plastic, cheerier than he feels and probably sounding like it, “I’m your best friend, and what kinda best friend would I be, letting you do something stupid like that? C’mon, man. You’d just get scared in the morning, waking up to a mug like this.”

_You’re just gonna regret this in the morning, being with me. Not just my face that’s gonna drive you away. I’ve been running, no good cowardly piece of shit, and you deserve so much better. I’m just gonna be a mistake._

_You don’t want me. I’ve never done anything right my whole life._

“Are you kidding me.” MacCready says, then, voice so low Hancock can barely hear. And then —  “Are you  _fucking_  kidding me!”

Hancock’s eyes widen, “What — “ and then he feels hands shoving him back, rough and pointed and he falls on his bony ass to the floor, wincing in pain, but looking up in time to see MacCready get up, cold  _fury_  in those piercing blue eyes, pissed as all get out and gathering his stuff. That look on him, that  _betrayal   —_ it feels like a fucking gutpunch, and Hancock’s almost frozen, watching MacCready start hobbling, limping over to the door, pausing at the frame and half-turning back to Hancock, the look on his eyes sharp enough to fucking  _kill_.

“You don’t get to decide what I  _want_ , Hancock.” MacCready spits, before turning right back around.

“Wait,” he manages, “Where’re you goin’, your leg — “

“I’m going to Daisy’s.” MacCready answers, clipped. Doesn’t even look back. “If you come looking for me and you say stupid shit like that again, I’ll fucking  _shoot you_.”

And then he’s gone. Out the door, and Hancock just stares at the place he’d left behind. The room’s suddenly empty, emptier than it ever felt before, and a coldness settles in his veins as the candles flicker, and he feels like a fucking  _shitheel_. He can still feel the traces of MacCready’s mouth against his, the curl of his tongue, the ghost of his warmth on his lap, underneath him —

 _Hancock, you fuck up, another thing you can’t do fuckin’ right,_  his mind whispers, and as he hauls himself back up on, he pretends his heart isn’t hollowed out and wounded, pretends he doesn’t feel raw and fucking awful, pretends searching his messed up table for any med-x left behind and injecting liquid stupid into his veins is important enough to keep him from going after MacCready, and bringing him back.

 


	2. from tonight i know that you're the only one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for referenced past child abuse/sibling abuse. It's only like one line, but please be careful just in case.

Hancock doesn’t see MacCready for an entire week. 

It’s the longest week of his life.

The first few days, it’s almost easy to ignore what happened. Not because it’s forgettable — it’s just that shit falls like dominoes after that, and his head spins trying to keep up with everything happening at once. He’s up to his tits in political brahminshit — the whole trade route thing is a headache as soon as it gets to the southern parts of the Commonwealth, or anywhere near Quincy, and traders are choosing  _now_  of all times to start complaining. Supermutants are being spotted down the road to the Slog, which means Wiseman’s upping his fees even  _higher_  than they already were, and Finch Farm goes under fire  _again_ , which makes for even later tato deliveries. And if it all weren’t bad enough, Fahrenheit comes back on the third day delivering whatever’s left of Bobbi No-Nose’s head to Hancock’s mayoral living room.

( “Fuck, F, did you have to?” Hancock groans, shielding his eyes. The blood’s getting  _everywhere._ He doesn’t have nearly enough Abraxo to scrub it out of the floorboards. “Seriously?”

“She tried to break into your strongroom.” Fahrenheit says plainly, like it answers everything. “Someone’s gotta keep the dogs fat.”

The watchdogs she keeps out the gates, at least, are happy that night. )

It’s all tiring shit. But it’s shit he  _has_  to do. Helps, maybe, that being busy from dawn to dusk means he doesn’t have time to think about why the couch feels so empty now, or why it feels all wrong to wear his own damn hat. Working the terminal until his eyes are squinting slits and his fingers ache, well, it’s for his people, and if it helps that he works until he collapses so he won’t have to think about utter disappointment and  _betrayal_  in sky blue eyes, that’s just his own business. His mentats stash goes down like water, and so does his med-x.

By the fourth day, he’s  _this_  close to cracking his own skull open. Things aren’t getting better, aren’t getting any easier — Bobbi’s abrupt disappearance a la Fahrenheit’s Ashmaker means a few of her  _connections_  are starting to sniff around town, ready to start shit at any second, and the neighbourhood watch are on their toes. The water purifier they’ve got is wearing down and this morning he’d overheard Karan telling Lee to head over and fix it before it troubles anyone any (and really, Hancock knows it ought to pay the two of them more, if they even live long enough, they’re too nice for the likes of Goodneighbour) and now he has to balance out the books again for — well, half a billion brahminshit he wants to just be  _done_  with.

His headaches aren’t helping. Been coming on strong the past few days especially, and he doesn’t know why (he knows exactly why, but he sure as shit ain’t gonna admit it) and it’s making things harder than they ought to be. By the time noon rolls around, he’s only halfway through the numbers he should be chugging along to, not even sure if they’re right, and there’s still more to do. God, if there ain’t always more to do.

Goodneighbour’s quiet, as it always is when noon rolls around. The town’s pretty much nocturnal, because the afternoon sun isn’t kind when you’re still rolling around with a hangover or recovering from aches that come with fights or gunfire, as Goodneighbour has no shortage of. As it is, the sun’s falling across his scarred and weathered knuckles as he makes absolutely 0 progress, and his scalp feels too small for his head. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the shitty sleep he’s been getting, or just because of the stress.

He’s halfway spacing out when a bottle of water gets slammed down on the desk beside him. Hancock  _jumps_  in his seat.

“Drink.” Fahrenheit says, from over his shoulder, and when he looks over to her she looks unamused as ever.

Fahrenheit’s not his keeper. Officially, she’s his right hand gal, and his bodyguard. Unofficially, she’s one of the closest, truest friends Hancock’s got, but she’s never been the kind to take care of anyone. She watches his back and tolerates his foolish flights of fancy, offers her advice and strategies regarding politics or protecting Goodneighbour, but mostly she’s just there to make sure he keeps breathing.

If she’s putting water in front of him, he must be doing  _real_  bad.

Hancock purses his sort-of lips, but knows better than to argue. The bottle cracks as it’s uncapped — fresh, purified shit, and damn it, he must look worse than he feels if she’s being this nice — and the water sails down his throat like  _honey_. He almost sighs in relief. He’s  _parched_  and he didn’t even realize. The bottle gets finished in seconds, and it relieves his headache just a little bit.

“Thanks, F.” He groans gratefully, putting the bottle aside.

Fahrenheit, in typical fashion, doesn’t react. Just reaches over, saves whatever it was he was working on — something important, he’s pretty sure, whatever it is — and then shuts down the terminal.

Hancock blinks in surprise, then frowns. “Hey, I was workin’ — “

“You weren’t.” Fahrenheit counters. He doesn’t make a move to turn the terminal back on. And then, “You’ve got to talk to him eventually.”

It’s direct. No nonsense, like she’s asking him to clear his table of all the damn empty chem containers already. Except it’s  _not_ , and Hancock has to force the sudden, gaping ache in his heart to go away.

“Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, F.” Hancock grunts finally, swatting her hand away petulantly as he boots the terminal back on. “Got work to do.”

“I’m not stupid,  _John_.” Fahrenheit says, and he doesn’t need to look at her when he winces. “And I’m not your babysitter either.”

Something inside him sparks at the friction. “You sure are  _actin’_  like it.” Hancock snaps a little, turning back to her, and immediately regrets it. The cold look in her eyes is enough to extinguish  _that_  flame of anger.

“Only because you’ve been slipping. Sloppy work, half-assed choices. You keep this up, someone’s gonna get hurt.” Fahrenheit answers. Voice toneless, deadpan, but he knows she’s irritated. “Either talk to him, or get your shit together.”

And she’s right. Because she’s too smart for the likes of her old raider gang and she’s too smart for the likes of  _him_ , and of course she’s noticed. Working til’ he collapses hasn’t actually made his work any  _better_ , and the chems aren’t helping. Sleepless nights, barely eating. He’d probably have worked better if he hadn’t been so hopped up on chems, chugging along on enough med-x to tranquilize a brahmin, but then he’d have to  _face_  things. Think about everything he’s done.  _Especially_  his mistakes, and he’s got a long list of them.

Watching his best friend storm out on him and not knowing if he’s coming back to him? It’s just been the last push to make his heart collapse in on itself.

The fight goes out of his system, and he slumps in his seat. The emptiness in the cavity of his chest is so vast, swooping in the loss, he doesn’t know what to  _do_  with himself to make it stop. He shuts his eyes and all he can see is the way MacCready’s blinked at him, slow, fond, in Hancock’s arms (where he belongs, Hancock’s traitorous mind pitches in). He pops a mentat and all he can taste is MacCready on his tongue, MacCready in the air he breathes. He goes to sleep at night and he thinks of how MacCready’s voice was fucking  _wrecked_ , and he wakes up with nothing but a damp spot on the couch and cold, guilty shame.

He keeps fucking up. It’s not a surprise. He’s been trying to convince himself that he did the right thing, got MacCready out while the going was good so it’d hurt less — except it’s a fucking lie because nothing’s ever hurt worse, and it shows.

Hancock doesn’t even realize he’s got his eyes squeezed shut until he feels something nudging against his shoulder. When he opens them again, he finds —  a fresh tin of orange mentats, his favourites, pressed to his shoulder, Fahrenheit looking aloof as always. When he takes the tin, her hand finds his shoulder, and  _squeezes_  for all of a second. It makes his eyes widen. When Fahrenheit touches anyone of her own volition, it’s almost always to hurt, or kill. This’d be nothing, to anyone else  — to them, it’s Fahrenheit’s equivalent to a yao guai hug.

“Do what you have to. Finish your work.” She says, hand leaving, turning away. “He’s coming back tomorrow.”

Hancock doesn’t know what to say for a moment. Flounders for words for a few seconds, before he finally mumbles a  _thanks_ , pops three ‘tats at a go and forces his mind to concentrate. She’s right, she’s right — he needs to get his shit together. Goodneighbour doesn’t care if their mayor is a brokenhearted, lovesick bastard — they care that he keeps them  _alive_ , free to breathe and live as they please, and that’s what he intends to do, even if it means ignoring the latter half of the sentence and pushing through this mountain of bureaucratic dumbassery until it’s done.

 

* * *

 

 

Later, when the sun goes down and Goodneighbour wakes, Hancock nurses his migraine with a bottle of whiskey that tastes like woodchips and piss. Everything hurts, every sound overwhelming. His whole tin of mentats already empty in one afternoon, just so all his work done, tidy on his terminal and shut down for the night, even if it means his head aches so bad he can barely breathe. 

He’s almost out of med-x. Has just one syringe left of the good shit, and it won’t be enough to dull this pain, not with his resistance, so he’s not gonna half ass it. The whiskey will do. Makes everything blurrier, makes everything melt away like soggy pre-war pictures. Every so often he raises the bottle to his mouth and takes a gulp or two of the sour-bitterness. Every so often he misses and sloshes most of it on his own chest. Not that it even matters, he hasn’t smelled sober or even clean in over a decade. A little whiskey in his couch won’t do any harm. And his head is nestled on Fahrenheit’s thigh — that helps, too.

He curls up further. Seeks comfort and warmth in the familiarity of her; Fahrenheit doesn’t let just  _anyone_  touch her. Handshakes from her are a rarity, a clap on the shoulder priceless in value. As far as he knows, he’s one of the only two people she lets herself be touched like this, the other busy singing passionately in the third rail. Fahrenheit’s one of his closest, truest friends. Not the kind you go to for gossip-filled sleepovers or the magic of friendship, just the kind that he knows always has his back, always willing to lend an ear or a thigh even if she doesn’t respond. Lying on her lap like this, it’s the closest thing he’ll ever get to comfort via physical contact from her.

He’d be touched if everything didn’t hurt so damn much.

And everything  _hurts._ Not just his head, but everything. Even with whiskey clouding his mind, he can’t stop thinking about the couch he’s lying on. What happened on it, what  _could’ve_  happened if he’d been selfish enough to keep going. And once  _that_  train of thought starts rolling down the track, it’s hard to stop, goes barreling down his brain like a boulder down a hill, and he’s in too much physical pain to stop wallowing in his own self loathing.

Outside, he can hear the streets come alive. Muffled music from drifters searching for an extra cap or two for the night. Rambunctious laughter, probably from some of his own guards. Things are actually going  _good_  outside, there aren’t any gunshots or the sound of a brawl yet. He should be  _out there_ , mingling among his own people, and yet all he can think of is  _I ruin everything I fuckin’ touch_.

He wants to think MacCready’ll come back. Friends... argue, right? Sometimes? And damn it all, Hancock’s decision was for the better, isn’t it? (Everything in him says it’s not, but he has a hard time trusting himself.) He wants to believe that he’s done the better, wiser thing here. It’s just not  _smart_  to be with someone like Hancock. Easier to cut his losses and run. MacCready will be mad at him for awhile, but then they’ll both find out they’re better off as friends, and everything will be just hunky-dory. Smooth fuckin’ sailing.

Except he’s terrified that it won’t be. Every swig of whiskey Hancock pulls from the bottle — it makes him loose limbed but his emotions worse, and he’s terrified that MacCready just... won’t. Won’t forgive him, won’t come back. That Hancock’s ruined  _everything_ , and MacCready’s finally gotten tired of Hancock’s shit. Maybe that’s why MacCready’d shoved him off, stormed away. Maybe it’s been a long time coming, and Hancock just... tipped it over the edge.

He wouldn’t be surprised. It’s not the first time people’ve left him. He knows where he’s not wanted but a part of him hopes, disgustingly, that MacCready will still come back to him. He’d settle for just acquaintances, even if it hurts.

Above him, Fahrenheit’s not even looking at him, but she hasn’t moved either or voiced a single complaint. Hancock’d be feeling more grateful if the lump in his throat would just go away, the prickling behind his eyes, hot and aching. He takes another swig from the bottle, and it barely burns his throat, numbs him but not enough to make him forget. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been lying there, drunk and sickeningly lovelorn, heartbroken, numb enough that he can’t feel his face but not numb enough to pretend that he feels anything but wracking guilt.

Because he can’t bear the thought of losing MacCready for good. It hurts too much, and fuck love for being what it is and fuck  _himself_  for being an idiot and falling in love with the one guy he absolutely, positively doesn’t deserve. Fuck him for falling in love with blue eyes and a cat-lipped smile, fuck him for falling in love with calloused, experienced hands and a light, easy, comforting drawl that Hancock wants to drown in. And more than that — fuck him, fuck him  _forever_ , that he knows that he might’ve just fucked it up forever and he might never see any of it again. 

He swallows, harsh, finds himself choking. When did his eyes start leaking? His head feels heavy for all the wrong reasons, and when he squeezes his eyes shut, he can’t help the shuddery, half-sob of an inhale. He’s getting emotional, irrationally, but also he’s drunk and he’s a sad fuckin’ fool and it’s not like it’s even the first time he’s accidentally done something that pushes someone out of his life forever, but.

He can’t lose MacCready. He  _can’t_ , but here he is, barely even sure if MacCready will even want to ever look at him again. It was a decision for the better of both of them, but Hancock’s more messed up than he’s been in years. If he shifts, just shimmies up a bit in Fahrenheit’s lap, it’d be exactly where MacCready was lying a few nights ago. Blinking up at him, slow and fond, the ghost of his mouth on Hancock’s, warm against him. He tries to think of a future without MacCready’s laugh, his stupid jokes, the way he messes with his hair after he takes off his cap. It’s a future that  _hurts_ , and Hancock doesn’t even realize he’s dropped the whiskey bottle.

“ — love him. I  _love him_ ,” he doesn’t even remember talking, but the words come out slurred and strangled and pathetic. He can’t seem to stop. The sobs hurt his chest, it radiates all through his core. “I love ‘im, F, I love him.”

Fahrenheit doesn’t say anything. Just lights a cigarette, goes  _hmm_. 

It’s the closest thing he’ll get to an  _I know_ , and he falls asleep like that, head and heart hurting, choking on his own tears and wishing he were a better person.

 

* * *

 

 

Fahrenheit kicks him out of the statehouse the next day. Or at least, threatens to drag him out herself if he doesn’t get outside.

She’s kind enough to at least slip him some med-x — the pill kind, more like painkillers, less like the drug that gets him loopy and sated — and water to help with his killer hangover in the morning, but beyond that she’s about two huffs away from dragging him out by whatever’s left of his ear. He’s got a half a mind to protest before he thinks better of it, and she watches him like a deathclaw as he reluctantly pulls on his shirt, skips on the coat and leaves the statehouse for the first time in  _days_. And it isn’t even like he has any reason not to be outside anyway — the weather’s fine, Fahrenheit’s promised to take charge of overseeing the whole trade route trainwreck, and the neighbourhood watch is so far keeping a hold on things in Goodneighbour so Bobbi’s friends don’t get any wise ideas.

Things should be fine. Things should be  _settled_. He should be happy.

_He’s coming back today_ , he remembers Fahrenheit saying, and the shame in his throat is enough to make him feel sick.

He wants to go back inside. Wants to just curl up under a blanket on his couch, maybe give himself a pity handie, shoot up enough med-x to bring a behemoth to beddy-bye. Wants to just shove away the pain and guilt, shove it down until it disappears. Then maybe he’ll wake up and things will be back to normal, MacCready will forgive him, everything will be sunshine and daytripper, and he’ll be back to being the asskicking mayor of Goodneighbour.

Except it’s not that easy. It  _can’t_  be that easy, because the thought of losing MacCready’s been like losing a fucking limb. Because MacCready, even before all that lovesick shit that’s been clouding Hancock’s mind, was his  _best friend_ , and it hurts more than anything to lose him like that. One minute here, the next minute gone. A taste of what Hancock’s always wanted and the next wrenched out of his grasp forever. Another mark on the tally of shit Hancock’s managed to completely screw over. The thought that he might never even talk to MacCready again — it’s makes his stomach flip and hot prickling go up his throat, burning him.

He tries not to think too hard about. He used to be pretty great at not thinking before.

He pats his side pocket. Feels the little pouch of caps Fahrenheit had shoved in his face earlier. He knows what she wants him to do, it’s just that he doesn’t know if she’s factored in the fact that he’s chickenshit.

But Daisy’s got to get paid  _somehow_ , he’s already made her wait too long. And, well. If MacCready’s there, if he’s with her, maybe.  _Maybe_ , he might be able to salvage things. Apologize for being a fuck up. Get them both a drink. And then maybe things can be okay. Maybe not the same but... okay. MacCready may never want to be so close to him ever again, but at least he’ll be  _there_  in Hancock’s life. He’ll just have to settle.

(He remembers the betrayed  _disappointment_  in MacCready’s eyes, the way MacCready’d spat out  _are you fucking kidding me_  even though the guy  _never_  swears, and Hancock bites back the vicious twist in his heart.)

It takes more effort than it should to cross from his doorstep down to Daisy’s discounts, but he manages, even though it feels like he’s wading through goddamn lead. Karan and Lee are watching the gates again, but they’ve got a good enough sense to turn away when they see him coming and start chatting among themselves instead of eavesdropping or watching. When he sees Daisy at her usual spot behind the counter, writing something in a newspaper, something goes tight in his ribs. Something a lot like  _dread_ , and it’s not a feeling he likes.

“Hey, Daize,” Hancock greets, forcing his voice into a casual cheeriness he doesn’t feel, raising his hand in a wave, “What’s the good word?”

The way Daisy’s inky dark gaze  _snaps_  up from her counter and straight into him makes him falter in his steps for a good few beats. If looks could kill, he’d be incinerated.

“The good word is that a  _mutual_  friend of ours went to your statehouse to rest and recover. Some mutie business. And  _then,_  he came back to me a few hours later, limping and heartbroken.” Daisy answers, finally, voice slow and as plain as oats even as her gaze looks sharp enough to viciously impale a behemoth. Hancock’s pretty sure he screws up his face, pain and guilt evident; Daisy meets it plainly, unapologetic. “Then the idiot who did all of that disappeared. Took five goddamn days to make an appearance. Wonder if you’d know anything about that.”

Hancock feels the shame swell inside him again, so overwhelming that his smile falls almost immediately, hand dropping to the side. Of course Daisy’d know. He doesn’t think MacCready’d be the kind to blab, but Daisy’s been around longer than 90% of the Commonwealth. You don’t  _get_  to live that long without being ridiculously observant, and Hancock’s never been known to be any good at being subtle.

He gives up the act. Takes a deep, shaky breath, and comes forward. “Daize, I fucked up. I  _know_  I fucked up. You have to — you have to tell him I’m  _sorry_ , that I didn’t mean, I — “

Daisy slams down her pen hard enough that it sticks upright on the table, and Hancock startles, shutting up immediately.

“ _I_ don’t have to do  _jack shit._ Clean up your own messes.” Daisy threatens, downright terrifying. “And you’d  _better_  clean up this one, because so help me god, you mess that boy over, Goodneighbour’ll  _need_  a new mayor.”

Momentarily, Hancock’s guilt gets shoved away by fear, and he nods wordlessly. He doesn’t even doubt her threat. Hell, she’s been here long before Vic, even, and she’ll be here long after Hancock’s in the dust, more than likely. Daisy gives him the stink eye for a good few more moments, before plucking her pen off the countertop, and going back to her newspaper. It’s some old copy of the Boston Bugle, pre-war, some crossword puzzle full of hints that no one else post-war would get.

“Don’t ever just assume shit. It makes an ass out of you and an ass out of me.” Daisy says, sounding more like a warning than advice. “He won’t be back for another two days, just so you know. Do with that what you will.”

Hancock flounders for a bit more words, and fails to come up with any. Feels like that’s all he’s been doing the past week — struggling for words, and fucking them up when they come to him. This time doesn’t seem to be any different, and he gives up, finally, just taking out the pouch of caps and sliding it onto the counter for Daisy. Her eyes peer up at him.

“For helpin’ us out the other night. The stims and med-x? Never did pay my bill.” Hancock jokes weakly, shrugging, before falling quiet. And then, because it feels right, “‘m sorry.”

Daisy’s expression goes... soft, then. Sympathy breaking past her tough exterior, brows unfurrowing, and somehow that just makes him feel more raw and exposed than he already was. Daisy’s got a good way of doing that — tough enough to feed you your own femurs, and then occasionally showing a little niceness that’ll give you whiplash. The way she looks — it’s no wonder Marowski’s drooling over her (though he won’t ever get her, she’s leaps and bounds ahead of that asshat.)

God, he’s so messed up over this. It’s not like him at all, except he doesn’t know how to fucking deal with it. And then Daisy speaks up again, and her voice is halfway  _tender_.

“You could make each other happy, you know.” Daisy says, shaking her head. “Stop sabotaging yourself. I’ve known you for years. You deserve a little happiness.”

The look on her face, the tone of her voice — something inside Hancock breaks  a little more, and suddenly it’s hard to swallow. Caught somewhere between wanting to say that she’s  _wrong_ , that happy endings and sunshine just don’t happen to guys like him, but also wanting to believe the look on her face. Daisy never bullshits, not even if it gets her a sale, and he wants to believe her. Wishes he could.

So instead he just swallows, harshly. Licks the scarred remnants of his lips. Says, “Thanks, Daize.” as he turns to walk away.

Daisy only hums, and then, turning back to her crossword, “Six letter word. Member of the horse family. Any clue?”

Hancock pauses. “The hell’s a ‘horse’?”

Daisy just looks at him. Snorts, and then waves him away.

 

* * *

 

 

It feels... weird, being out in the streets of Goodneighbour again.

Been a week since he’s been in the scene. Feels a lot  _longer_  than a week, that’s for sure, but that’s what happens when you lose yourself in heartbroken haze and go on a five day bender. It’s obvious to the people of Goodneighbour too, with the way everyone’s looking at him  — even with his distinctive red frock coat and his tricorner hat, he looks a lot less like charismatic mayor and more like...

Well, shit.

But even though his head still aches from last night’s bourbon binge, he comes out into the night anyway. Feels the chilly air wake him up a little. It feels weird being out here again, but comforting in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived there — the streets coming alive, people walking and talking and keeping each other company. Muffled music coming from the Third Rail, Magnolia belting her heart out, food vendors out on the streets by the drifter corner, people gathered ‘round with warm mirelurk soup and razorgrain bread, sharing and caring. Around and above them, the town’s lit up by twinkling lights and warm fires, stars bright above them in a way Daisy swears couldn’t ever be seen pre-war. Goodneighbour’s never promised to be a clean town, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it used to be. The streets won’t ever completely be bloodstain-free, and he’d be coloured impressed if some sort of fight doesn’t break out tonight, but at least it’s all fair. What isn’t, Fahrenheit can handle.

Sometimes, Hancock can’t be sure if he’s doing right by the town, by the folks who live in it. Nights like these, though — he can believe, at least, that he’s done  _something_  good.

Beyond the initial weirdness caused by his own pitysack hermiting over the week, and the people giving their mayor a cautious look, Hancock finds himself slipping back easy into the scene. Just takes a few greetings, a smile he forces, and then it comes as easy as breathing. The smile quickly becomes genuine as he mingles with the people, laughing, catching up on what he’s missed — he slides back into Goodneighbour’s energy like he’s never left, and for that, he’s grateful.

The streets fill up quick once the sun goes down, and Hancock takes a comfortable perch against the rough brick wall of his statehouse, leaning back and letting the sounds of home soothe his nerves. People come up to talk to him, thanking him or just shooting the breeze. Leon tells him all about a whole building of ferals he took out singlehandedly, Rose informs him about some mystery business happening up in Salem. Miss Selmey totes her new baby in a sling, and Hancock feels comedically downright  _mayoral_  when he shakes the lil guy’s grubby fist. Even Lee and Karan pass by and say hi to their boss, telling him about a mutie suicider they managed to blow up at a distance. Hancock laughs about it once the tale is done, and then shoos them off to enjoy the rest of their night off, waggling his wannabe brows at the way their hands are linked, enjoying the way Lee’s ears go red and Karan chokes.

( He makes it a point for his crew to take it easy around him. Basic level of respect while on the job of course, strictly employer-employee shit, but when they’re off the clock he makes it a good point to make sure they treat him like a friend, treating them to chems or a round of beer every so often. Easier to trust a happy-kept crew, and Hancock’s never been one for the whole yessir-nossir business outside of office hours. Having people try to kiss his ass in the non-bedroom funtimes way, people too scared of his status to talk to him, censoring themselves so they don’t piss him off, walking on eggshells, people bowing down to him — 

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. That kind of power play, it just ain’t his style. )

The night goes on like this — good, comfortable, making home in his bones that he hasn’t felt all week. The good mood is infectious; the drifters are huddled around a fire and laughing together instead of pulling guns on each other, Peggy the leather-jacketed ghoul bombshell is loudly flirting with a sort-of familiar lady in a surveyor outfit by the Memory Den, and even Kent Conolly has stuck his head outside, getting fresh air. At some point, Fred Allen pokes his sweaty head out of the Rexford, already stumbling around and high out of his ass. The second he sees Hancock, his grin grows a mile wide.

“’Ey, it’s the mayor! Long time no see!” Fred exclaims loudly, jolly, and Hancock has to laugh despite the volume.

“Just been a week, Freddy. ‘sides, Fahrenheit’s been seein’ you in my place.” Hancock grins.

Fred shudders comically before grinning right back. “Ah, fine lady, but heck if she doesn’t give me the willies. Whole lot of mentats and med-x you ordered though! Mayoral bullshit, am I right?”

“Mayoral bullshit,” Hancock confirms, even as his smile pulls tight.

He hopes it doesn’t show, but Fred’s eyes light up in recognition, and he’s not the kind of guy who keeps quiet about anything. “Ah, man. Work stress. Don’t worry, man, I’ve got this  _really_  sweet batch of med-x — “

“And I’ll come check it out later, Freddy.” Hancock cuts off with a wink. “Already buzzed right here and I ain’t got a single cap on me. Hold onto that for me, yeah?”

It’s a lie, but it’s not uncommon for him to wander ‘round high as a kite, and Fred seems happy to buy it, going on his merry way to sling an arm around an instantly overwhelmed Kent. It’s easier to tell Fred he’s already high than not wanting them. Last thing he needs is rumours going around that the mayor’s been replaced by a synth, ‘cause when has John Hancock ever turned down chems? 

Hancock sighs, and leans back against the rough surface of the brick wall, feeling his hard-earned relaxation slowly slipping from him. Yeah, he’s sober — almost painfully so, he hates it — but he’s got good reason to be.

And when Hancock turns to his right, his reason comes walking up from behind a corner, and his stomach drops.

MacCready, right there. Walking on the other side of the street Hancock’s on. He looks tired, overworked, shadows under his eyes and stubble growing thicker like he hasn’t shaved in a few days. He’s in his usual garb, duster looking weathered as always but not particularly bloodstained, rifle slung around his back. Hancock watches, lump in his throat, as MacCready leans against one of the walls, pulls out a cigarette and lights it, thin lips against the thing as he inhales. Blue eyes watching the crowds, blending into the walls, and breathing out a lazy stream of smoke, shoulders slowly untensing. Probably soaking in the amicable atmosphere too.

Hancock can feel his stomach go heavy, heart hammering in his chest. Fuck him, for still being stupidly smitten with MacCready. Fuck  _MacCready_ , for being unfairly fucking handsome, in the warm streetlight.

Part of him wants to run. Feels like he oughta, and it’d be easy anyway, just has to take a few steps, turn around and go through the door of his statehouse to hide for the rest of the night. MacCready sure won’t come to see him, and then he won’t have to worry about botching shit up, or at least even more than he already has.

But.  _But_.

Daisy’s right. Daisy’s right, Fahrenheit’s right, and even his heart’s screaming that it’s right, he has — he’s got to at least go up to him. Summon up his spine and  _apologize_  instead of running away like he always does, like a goddamned coward. He’s got to try to make it right, and fuck, if MacCready doesn’t want to forgive him, won’t come back to him, then. Then at least Hancock knows he made the effort. And it’ll have to be good enough (even though none of these thoughts help him in the slightest.)

He’s fought whole raider gangs before. Supermutant suiciders. The fuckin’  _Gunners_  just posted outside of Goodneighbour territory, alpha fucking deathclaws. And yet he’s never felt more scared than now, summoning up the courage to pry himself off the wall, forcing his face into a careful neutrality so people don’t stop him to ask what’s wrong. It works, making his way across the crowd, up until MacCready’s blue, blue eyes flicker from the ground upwards, and land right on him.

The way MacCready’s body immediately tenses, mouth curving instantly into a wary, angry scowl — it makes something vicious twist up in Hancock’s heart. He feels sick all over again.

“’Cready, wait — “ he finds his calm facade dropping instantly, almost stumbling to walk up to him, except MacCready’s already yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and thrown it to the ground, ready to spin on his heel and walk away.

“Leave me  _alone_ , Hancock.” MacCready  _grits_  at him, posture rigid, sharpest  _fuckoff_  dangerous look in his eyes like a cornered feral dog.

(And what does it say about Hancock, hopelessly romantic idiot he is, that all he can think about is  _this is the first time I’ve seen him up close in days,_ and  _fuck, but he’s gorgeous when he’s pissed_.)

“MacCready, c’mon, I need to — “ Hancock tries, even though MacCready’s already stomping away towards the Rexford. He strides to catch up, trying not to yell, even though at this point he doesn’t give a shit if he does. Goodneighbour’s smart enough to mind it’s own business and the crowd’s too busy with their own raucous laughter to care about them anyway. Seeing MacCready’s back facing him, walking away like this, he can’t —  “’Cread, I’m  _sorry_!”

MacCready stops, there. Falters in his footsteps and Hancock stops too, heart aching in his chest and stomach lurching. He doesn’t know if it’s because of his volume or because of how goddamn pathetic he sounds, at this point he doesn’t  _care_. MacCready looks at him with a mixture of anger and trepidation, and Hancock takes a step closer, apology forming on his lips even as MacCready’s face morphs into something odd. 

It doesn’t matter, none of it matters. All that  _does_ matter is that MacCready’s here, MacCready’s listening, and he’s got one chance to make amends and —

_Click_.

Well, shit.

“Bobbi never did like you.” Comes a cold voice from behind him. Feminine, wavering a bit. Even through the layers of his frock coat and his dress shirt, the barrel of the gun pressed into his back is unmistakeable. So is the voice. And suddenly the drifter in the surveyor outfit, looking constipated while being flirted at by Peggy, down by the Memory Den — he finally realizes why she was so familiar.

Hancock almost wants to laugh. Kind of mostly wants to punch her, and then himself, and then the universe. He’s finally got MacCready to talk to him, and he’s being interrupted by an assassination attempt. Fuckin’ typical.

Well, at least he knows that the weird look on MacCready’s face wasn’t aimed at him anymore.

“Kelly, we don’t gotta do this. What, you wanna avenge Bobbi, is that it? Over what, some dumb gig I skipped out on ten years ago?” Hancock tries, bringing back some charm into his voice.

Around them, Goodneighbour’s gone quiet, people watching as someone’s stupid enough to pull a gun on the mayor right out on the streets. Hancock doesn’t turn around, but he can hear the cocking of dozens of guns, from both the neighbourhood watch, and from his friends and allies out on the streets. In front of him, he hears another click, and his eyes flicker to MacCready, who’s already poised with his rifle, mouth turned into a grim line. Dozens of guns, right by his side. Hancock would be touched, if he weren’t focused on calming his heartbeat and negotiating his life.

“Shut the fuck up, John.” Kelly grits out behind him. “You fucked us over by bailing out on that job. And now Bobbi’s  _dead_  because of you.”

"Goodneighbour ain’t gonna take it very welcome if you shoot me.” Hancock tries, voice more easygoing than he feels. The barrel of the gun is shaking against him.  _She won’t go through with this, it’s Kelly_. “C’mon, Kells. What say you and me drop this whole drama? Take the night on the town, forget all about No-Nose, and we can talk about that — “

_BANG_ , and suddenly it feels like someone’s got a baseball bat and  _slammed_  it into his back, knocking all the air out of his lungs in a fucking gust. His ears ring, he doesn’t remember falling, but then he’s on his arm on the ground, and it’s like the world’s gone sideways. An immediate chorus of gunfire follows immediately after the first one. He feels copper in his mouth. This isn’t the first time he’s been shot, but it never stops being surprising. His eyes are wide open, dark edges creeping in. Calloused hands grab his shoulders.

“Crap, crap,  _Hancock_ , stay with me — “ it’s MacCready, blue eyes wide in fear and worry, and then he’s looking over his shoulder and yelling  _SOMEONE GET DAISY_  and Hancock wants to kiss the fear off his face.

He must say it out loud, judging by how quick MacCready snaps back to look at him. He forces a hopefully comforting grin. “S’ g’nna be fine. Gotta... still gotta tell, tell you, tell you I — “

A cough interrupts him, sends a splatter of blood right across the pavement to add to the rest, and MacCready snaps out of his own shock. “Hancock, just  _shut up_ , don’t talk — “

“ — 'm s’rry, I  — “

The last thing he sees before his vision completely tunnels is MacCready, holding onto him, looking fucking  _terrified_ , and going  _Hancock, Hancock, Hancock._

 

* * *

 

 

“...  _Mmm_ mmotherfucker — “ is the first thing out of Hancock’s mouth as he comes back to reality.

He hurts all over, but particularly his chest. Feels like someone put a fire poker to his back and then whacked it in with a sledgehammer, except less sharp and more of a dull throb. He doesn’t really remember what happened just yet, but he definitely knows he got shot. He’s had bullets go through him enough times to know how it feels like, during and after, and he’s sure he’ll recall everything soon.

He definitely remembers falling down to concrete, though. Under him, he’s still horizontal, but it’s on something... softer. Familiar. When he finally pries his eyes open, he’s greeted with a familiar ceiling, familiar windows, familiar curtains. Familiar eyes, dark and sharp, skin leathery and scarred, in a familiar suit with a familiar brown wig.

“Daize.” Hancock croaks, trying to get up and groaning, back and chest aching. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah, that’s normal after you get shot.” Daisy says, no sympathy in her voice, though it has no hostility either. “You’re in your statehouse. You passed out a little while, not that long. Remember what happened?”

“Got shot.” Hancock mutters. He forces himself to blink a few times, lets his eyes readjust and his head to stabilize. “Outside.”

Daisy nods. She comes over to his side, and he watches as she removes the tube in his hand, connected to an empty blood pack. “Kelly. You remember her?”

“Oh yeah. Definitely.” Hancock grits out. Sitting up hurts. He’s been hurt worse before, has nearly drowned, bled out, and has had his skin melted down and bubbling thanks to going ghoul. Still, it doesn’t mean it ever stops hurting, and this time’s no exception. “Least we know who was stirring shit here. What happened to her?”

“Well, half of Goodneighbour pumped her full of lead after her first shot into you, if that’s what you wanna know. Lucky that you’re a popular man, sugar.” Daisy says, and smiles for the first time this whole conversation, amused. “Anyway, you’ll be fine, you can walk it off. Just lost a lot of blood. Ain’t the worst I’ve ever seen you, but you oughta stop doing this sorta thing. Only time I ever come into this statehouse anymore is when someone’s halfway dying.”

Hancock laughs a little at that, even though it hurts his chest and back. He rests up against the ratty pillows; he’s shirtless, he realizes, and his hat’s missing. Looking around, he’s glad to see them hung up on one of his dressers, which is a relief. He’ll be better in no time. He remembers he ought to be doing something though, and he looks around the room, spots a familiar duster and cap and scarf lying folded on his bedside table and —

“Where’s MacCready?” Hancock asks suddenly, eyes wide and looking around. “Shit, is he okay, I — “

“He’s  _fine_ , calm down. Went with Fahrenheit to make sure Kelly didn’t bring backup with her. Should be back soon.” Daisy reassures, before her eyes go soft. She sits at the edge of his bed, looking finally sympathetic. “Guess I can’t be mad at you this time ‘round, huh, sugar? Heard from some friendly birdies that you were tryin’ to go after Robbie when you got shot. Some luck you’ve got.”

Hancock makes himself settle down a little, when he hears that MacCready’s fine. Feels a little colour go to his cheeks, even if no one can see it under his ghoulified skin, when she mentions it.

“What can I say? Life ain’t ever boring for me.” Hancock manages, cocking a grin he only half feels.

Daisy quirks a smirk. “ _And_  ain’t ever cheap either. I’ll send Fahrenheit the bill.”

“Aw, c’mon Daize, not even a ten cap discount for your mayor?” Hancock jokes, grinning a little more fully this time. “Just barely escaped death, after all.”

Daisy just smiles, and gets up to dust her lap. “Not a chance in hell, Hancock.”

Almost as if on cue, the door downstairs opens, and then shuts, and a familiar voice grumbles through the floorboards. Hancock feels his throat instinctively tighten up, his stomach dropping out from under him.  _Fuck_ , he still has to do this. A part of him wishes he could just pass out again, maybe skip the whole awkward song and dance and just wake up to them being best pals again, but he knows that can’t happen. He knows he owes that apology, he’s just being chickenshit as always.

The door opens with a faint knock, and MacCready definitely doesn’t expect Hancock to already be awake, judging by the way he freezes in the doorway, eyes widened.

Daisy navigates the tension like someone who can dance through a mine chamber. Just packs her stuff, hums, slings her bag over her shoulder and pats Hancock’s.

“About time I headed back before Kleo uses my shop as a fat-man testing ground.” Daisy says nonchalantly, like the atmosphere in the room hasn’t dropped. “G’night, boys. Try not to get yourselves killed ‘fore morning light.”

And then she’s gone, walking by MacCready in the doorway before shutting the door behind her with a quiet little  _click_. The room goes painfully, painfully quiet, and when Hancock chances looking up proper, MacCready’s just... looking at him. Expression caught between worry and wariness, like a feral cat unsure to either approach or run.

Hancock notes, at least, it’s not anger. Not like it was earlier, not the anger and hurt and betrayal.

At this point, it’s a fuckin’ relief.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.” Hancock attempts to joke, falling just a little flat. “What, she shot off my other nose?”

At least  _that_  seems to break MacCready out of his spell. Manages to even draw out a little reluctant smirk, tired and worried still and still cautious, but it’s there. Hancock feels instantly gratified, a small weight lifted off his chest. The fact that he can still make MacCready smile, even just a little bit, in spite of it all — it’s a relief.

MacCready comes closer, stopping by Hancock’s bedside, looking like he’s not sure whether to sit or stand. Hancock shifts a little, scoots to the side, gives him a look. MacCready hesitates, but then complies, and sits at the edge of the bed, a comfortable distance between them, looking unfairly handsome without the duster, the green button-up he wears with the sleeves rolled up to show off impressive forearms. Hancock tries not to fall in love with it; the feeling, the idea, of MacCready’s weight dipping his bed.

“You alright?” MacCready asks, still looking tense and ready to bolt, but at least seated. Blue eyes finally settle properly on Hancock’s, and Hancock pretends his heart doesn’t ache at the sight of it. “The f — what was that all about?”

“Name’s Kelly. Used to run with me and Bobbi doin’ jobs, ‘s all. You know, back when my skin was like a baby’s ass. Small fry shit, stealing brahmin and trying to pawn ‘em off for caps.” Hancock explains, shrugging. “And then Bobbi wanted to do a bigger heist. Not gonna go into details here, but it wasn’t pretty, and ain’t my style. I jumped ship ‘fore they could drag me deeper. They’ve probably held a grudge on me since — always was the frontline speaker when I was with  _that_  crew. Bobbi was always the brains, and I had the tongue to make shit happen. Kelly’s good for manual labour, naive and desperate enough that she never asked questions, but she can’t charm a damn thing.”

MacCready frowns at it. Not angry, just thoughtful, lips pursed. “Yeah, your uh. I mean, Fahrenheit, she told me about Bobbi. Tried to rob your warehouse or something.”

“Yeah, Kelly probably came to avenge Bobbi. Too bad F got a couple dozen bullets into her first. ” Hancock grins. “Always had great reflexes, F. Bet she could dodge russian roulette with that Ashmaker of hers, even.”

MacCready  _snorts_ , and turns his head away to hide a smile. Hancock’s heart  _squeezes_  with enough affection that he loses whatever words he wants to say next, and MacCready falls quiet too. The silence comes creeping back in, tension slowly building again between them. And then MacCready shifts, looking like he wants to get up, walk away, and something in Hancock screams  _no_ , and he reflexively grabs MacCready by the wrist, pain in his chest from sitting upright be damned.

MacCready freezes, and Hancock can see the way the muscles in those glorious forearms flex beneath his fingers. Knows that he’s doing something stupid, MacCready’s a seasoned enough wastelander to know how to twist and break Hancock’s wrist from here, but he knows MacCready knows  _him_  enough not to do it. (and hell, even if he does, it’s nothing Hancock doesn’t deserve anyway.)

“Wait,” Hancock says, and wets the scarred ridges of his mouth with his tongue before trying again.  _Here goes nothing_. “I never — never got to apologize proper.”

He watches as MacCready’s face morphs back into a familiar frown. Eyes going cold, shuttering down like a slamming door, and Hancock’s stomach drops. “We’re not doing this now, Hancock.”

“I’m  _serious_.” Hancock tries again, pretends it doesn’t hurt when MacCready yanks his wrist out of Hancock’s grip. “I’m  _sorry_. What I did, it wasn’t — wasn’t right of me to do that, and — “

“We’re not  _doing_  this, Hancock — “

“I swear, I didn’t mean — “

“ _Hancock —_ “

“Please, just listen, swear on my heart I’m sorry — “ 

“Do you even  _know_  what you’re sorry for?” MacCready suddenly snaps, looking at him with anger  _burning_ in his eyes, the betrayal back and fierce. “Do you even know??”

Hancock’s feels a vice on his windpipe, and he swallows harsh. 

What’s he supposed to say? Where does he even  _start_? That he doesn’t feel good enough for MacCready? That he’s been so heartbroken off of one argument that he’s gone on a weeklong bender? That he’ll never be good enough? Where does he even begin, when he’s got a list so long that he can wrap it ‘round the Commonwealth twice over?

MacCready’s got  _good_  people in his life right now. He had Lucy, who was apparently a goddamned angel sent to watch over him, sweet and kind and smart. He has the vaultie, the sole survivor, who’s changing the Commonwealth a day at a time, who’d  _saved_  MacCready’s dying son. He’s got Daisy, who’s taken on as a new guardian figure. Hell, there’s Cait, there’s Piper, there’s Nick fucking Valentine. Each and every one of them a better person than Hancock is, or ever will be.

Hancock, on the other hand. He knows he’s always been a coward. That he’s a mistake, that he’s a pathetic, cowardly good-for-nothing that’s only ever been good at running away. His parents have told him, and his brother beat it into him, and it isn’t even like they’re wrong — he’s got plenty of history that supports every damn thing they’ve said, from back before and even after he’d gone ghoul. Hell, he’d gone ghoul  _because_  he was running from his past. Even tonight, with Kelly, with Bobbi — all because he bailed on them when they needed him.

What good is he, for the likes of MacCready?

In the end, he just finds himself staring at MacCready, mouth struggling to find the right words. And obviously, he’s quiet for too long, judging by the way MacCready’s face contorts into an ugly, betrayed scowl. The look in those eyes say  _hurt,_ in a way that made getting shot feel like a pat on the back, and MacCready’s turned a shade of angry red, splotching on his cheeks and the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Thought so.” MacCready bites out, voice vicious, looking both like he’s burning with rage, but also with shame. Turns away, refuses eye contact. “We’re done.”

“Wait,  _no —_ Mac, please,” and Hancock doesn’t even care how desperate he sounds, because he  _is_ , “I’m  _sorry_  — “

“What can you be sorry about when you don’t even  _know_  what you’re apologizing for!” MacCready snaps back at him, turning so fast on him Hancock gets whiplash. His heart snaps and  _shatters_  when he sees MacCready draw a sharp inhale, one of his hands scrubbing furiously at his eyes for a second, pulling away damp. MacCready’s next words are sharp, bitter, meant to hurt. “You just — you don’t get to fucking  _play_  with people like that.”

_That_  gets Hancock snapping up to attention. “I don’t, I didn’t — shit, man, I’d never  _play_  with someone like that, I’d never play you. Mac, I  _swear._ “

MacCready barks out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “Yeah, and I’m supposed to believe that crap? You — you let me lie on your lap like that, you called me  _sweetheart,_ you, we — we  _kissed_ , goddamn it, and then you just  _stop_  and tell me I don’t want it? What the  _hell_  am I supposed to think?” Blue eyes dart away again, and Hancock feels like there’s a sliver of glass in his throat. MacCready swallows hard. Looks away. “If you — fuck, man. If you don’t  _want_  me like that just say so. Don’t — you can’t do that to me.”

It’s funny. Feels a little bit like the world’s just... stopped, around them. Beyond the walls of the statehouse, Hancock barely notices the muffled sound of street performers above the echoing thump of his own heartbeat. Can barely see anything except the way MacCready looks; sitting rigid, back bent and head bowed, looking angry and ashamed in the brittle streetlight coming through the dusty windows. The hurt hangs in the air like a radstorm between them, and Hancock’s stomach lurches with the thought of it all. He gets it, now.

“Just. Didn’t want you to do something you’d regret.” Hancock croaks, finally, slow, and his voice sounds painfully broken and echoing in the quiet room. Keeps his eyes on MacCready, swears he sees clenched fists trembling. The shame in his own stomach makes him feel a little sick. “I — I’m not a good person, MacCready. Never have been, never will be, doesn’t matter how much I talk myself up. Always been a coward. Always — I ain’t never done anything right.”

MacCready doesn’t speak. But he does look up, meets Hancock’s gaze, eyes still hurt but now questioning, instead of angry.

Hancock tries again, forcing the words out from his suddenly tight throat. “That night, I... I swear, I wasn’t playing you. But you. You deserve better.”

That’s all he’s got left in him, and the room falls quiet again after. Humiliation burns in his lungs, feeling lost and hopeless and fucking pathetic. It’d hurt less to get shot again. It’d hurt less if Goodneighbour planted him full of bulletholes instead of Kelly. He can’t help but look away, feeling naked and raw and not just because he’s shirtless. The silence continues for a few more beats, and each one makes his heart sink like a riverstone.

“That’s my decision to make, isn’t it?”

Hancock jolts. Looks up, and meets MacCready’s eyes, and he sees so much  _sympathy_  and concern that he forgets how to breathe for a few seconds.

MacCready, for the most part, at least looks like most of the anger’s gone. Still tense, still looking ready to fly at anyone breathing in his general direction, but he stays planted at the side of the bed, fingers fidgeting with each other.

“And for... for what it’s worth, you’ve done good. I mean, look at Goodneighbour. Everyone loves you for a reason. And there’s — I mean, you helped  _me_. When I first came here. Would’ve been drunk and dead in a gutter without you.” MacCready mumbles. The tips of his ears are red for a whole different reason, and Hancock’s pulse stutters. “I — ffff _fffffhh,_ I’m no good at this — I. I’m grateful, okay? And I bet at least half of Goodneighbour is too.”

A pause. And then,

“You’re one of the best people I know.”

Hancock finds himself. Speechless. Doesn’t have a damn word in his brain to supply to the situation and he stares at MacCready, eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. MacCready spares him one glance, turns redder, and ducks his head to stop looking at him. If Hancock still had his old skin, he’s willing to bet he’d be redder than his own frock coat.

It’s not that people don’t say nice things to him. They do, and sometimes, if he’s lucky, it’s not even because they want to get down on their knees and beg for caps or pardon. But he’s always afraid — that one day someone will see through him, will realize the ugly, scared, druxy coward he is on the inside. That someday someone will realize that he’s not the man for this job, or  _any_  job, that isn’t running away. He’s afraid someone will pry him apart and realize all his insides are already rotted through.

Even now, he doubts it. Even though MacCready’s never lied to him. And now — now, Hancock doesn’t know what to say, except for the ugly little flare of hope in his chest that he’s trying not to extinguish just yet.

“You really think so?” He finally says, immediately  _hating_  how he sounds like he’s fishing for compliments. Shakes his head. “I mean... Shit. I — you sure you got the right guy? This mug? Got ashamed enough of himself he turned ghoul? _This_ guy?”

MacCready’s still pink, but he does manage to meet Hancock’s gaze again. Shrugs. “Don’t know what’s so bad about you. Everyone’s running from something. Skeletons in the closet or whatever. Worse ways to run away from sh   — to run away from crap besides turning ghoul.  _You_  turned ghoul and then led a goddamn  _rebellion_. Pretty kickass by anyone’s definition.”

Now it’s Hancock’s turn to smile, sheepishly, and he sees MacCready smile back, half-cocked and embarrassed.

“Can’t take the credit for all of that, y’know. Pretty sure Daisy killed more of Vic’s thugs than the rest of us put together.” Hancock replies, only half-joking, because it’s Daisy they’re talking about. “... Thanks. For, uh. Sayin’ all that. Y’ didn’t have to.”

MacCready rubs the back of his neck, but manages a smirk. “ _Someone_  had to, apparently, if you had all those stupid thoughts in that head of yours in the first place.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Hancock jokes, before pausing. The tension between them is... it’s still there, but it’s different, now. An underlying current of something different, something that’s terrifying. Teetering on the edge of something else and Hancock doesn’t dare to hope. Hope’s a dangerous thing, but the way MacCready’s looking at him makes his heart rise to his throat. Threatens to take all his air away, and leave him gasping. “... So.”

“So.” MacCready follows, sounding unsure himself.

Hancock summons his spine. His heart’s threatening to give out inside him. 

“That night... You really wanted all that?” Hancock says. Wants to make  _sure_ , once and for all, the kind of look MacCready’s giving him that makes his knees weak, his heart pounding. He _has_  to make sure. Now or never. “You want — you want  _me_?” And he hates sounding so insecure, but here he is.

It’s really goddamn funny, how outside the world’s still spinning, the Commonwealth still alive and moving without them — and yet they’re here, on Hancock’s bed, and he feels like this is the moment where his world slows. Threatens to tip on it’s axis. He’s felt less scared on top of the Mass Fusion building, and at that point he had his toes hanging out over the edge of the world.

MacCready looks at him, under lashes that the wasteland doesn’t fucking deserve, shoulders tense under the fabric of his shirt. Blue eyes glancing from the floor, to Hancock, and then back and forth again. The world’s still moving outside them, around them, but it feels like they’re the only two people left. Just alive. Just breathing.

“Not like I... Not like I go doing that to just  _anyone_.” MacCready mutters, embarrassed, makes Hancock’s mouth quirk into a smile without even  _thinking_ , god _damn_  this fella — and then MacCready’s back straightens, and he looks at Hancock with a certain nervous determination that makes Hancock straighten a bit too. Hands bunched in the fabric of his pants. Hancock swears he can hear both their pulses racing. 

“I know what I _i_  want, Hancock.” MacCready finally says. Looks at Hancock, really  _looks_ , unwavering eye contact even with the nerves in his voice. And then, and  _then_ , “What do  _you_  want?”

The answer that comes to Hancock’s head is immediate. So easy that Hancock wants to laugh. Instead, he takes a deep inhale.

_Of course. Of course. Never had a doubt in my mind._

“You.” Hancock breathes. “Always you.”

And then there’s just. A  _moment_. Where the world slows down in a way that reminds Hancock of jet, but slower than that. Sweeter. Commits the moment to memory; the way MacCready’s eyes widen, lips parted, breathes  _in._  And all Hancock can think is  _oh, god, but you’re so fucking gorgeous,_  and then MacCready’s looking at him with such a hopeful fondness that any other arguments in his mind, the faults and the doubts — they go quiet, and Hancock moves without thinking. Forward, pain in his chest be damned. Shuts his eyes the same time MacCready shuts his own, and then —

It’s like coming home. MacCready’s mouth is chapped and soft and  _warm_ , like it was all those nights ago but  _better_. There’s no rushing, no wall of med-x, just both of them, and it’s heady and so fucking  _good_  he swears he may die.

Fuck the universe. It can take him now. He can go and die happy, with the trace of MacCready’s mouth on his, and all the love he’s got.

It’s not the best thing, but it is, and yeah, okay, maybe they’re both shaking a little from it — but it’s good shakes, he swears. When Hancock hesitantly moves his hand to cup MacCready’s jaw (defined, the rough stubble, cheekbones sharp enough to cut through fucking  _glass_ ) MacCready’s own hand comes up, touches the dip between Hancock’s neck and shoulders, thumbing the sharp line of his collarbone. There are  _stars_  imploding between them, supernovas in the air they breathe on each other’s lips, slightly parted, warm and heady and full. There are  _universes_.

And when they pull away, breathing in each other’s air like it’s all they need to survive, Hancock’s heart nearly gives out when he looks in MacCready’s eyes. Blue and warm and  _love, love, love_ , half-lidded and dizzy in the best of ways, his mouth smiling dopey and content and lips glistening in a way that sends Hancock’s blood rushing through his ears.

_I’m gonna live a hundred years_ , Hancock thinks, trying to remember which way is up or down and failing,  _but yours are the sweetest eyes I’ll ever see_.

MacCready  _laughs_  then, breathlessly happy,  _snorts_ , and Hancock’s grinning so hard his face hurts. He moves forward, foreheads  _thunking_  together a little clumsily, but he doesn’t give a shit. MacCready may be right. Maybe he’s not so rotten after all. He can’t be, if he can make MacCready smile like this, laugh like this. It’s a good feeling, one of the best in the world. 

“Jackass,” MacCready grins, sounding drunk on happiness, “We could’ve been doing this for  _months_.”

“We really could’ve,” Hancock laughs, a little delirious himself. “Guess we better make up for lost time, sweetheart.”

MacCready makes a funny little noise in his throat at that, face  _flaring_  red, and the sound slides right down Hancock’s throat, right to his heart. MacCready murmurs something Hancock can’t hear, and then ducks his head away from Hancock’s and buries it in Hancock’s shoulder instead. (He’s reminded, a little bit, of a kitten that Mags found three years back before she’d put it in the loving hands of a passing lonely drifter, and Hancock’s heart swells in waves.)

“What’s that? Couldn’t hear you.” Hancock nudges. His cheeks hurt from smiling. He thinks his face is gonna be stuck like this at the end of everything; he’ll have to rebalance the books, pay his guards extra to stop laughing at him. “What?”

“...ke it.” MacCready mumbles, muffled by Hancock’s shoulder. The back of his neck is a splotchy red. Hancock has the sudden ridiculous, all-consuming desire to trace it with his mouth.

Hancock chuckles instead, hopelessly fond. “C’mon, now you’re not even makin’ words.”

“I said I like it when you call me that,” MacCready finally relents, sounding embarrassed to ridiculous degrees. Face flushed all the way down his throat. “If you make fun of me, I’ll shoot you.”

Hancock’s heart skips a beat. “Sweetheart?”

MacCready nods, minutely, into his chest and Hancock, he.  _Fuck_ , he swears he can die. His heart feels like it’s about to burst, warmth radiating from his chest all the way to his fingers, his toes, dripping from between his ribs. He feels ludicrously, stupidly mad with love, so much he doesn’t know what to do with it, and when he pulls just enough away that MacCready lifts his head from Hancock’s shoulder, cheeks and nose red and warm, Hancock forgets what the sky looks like beyond what’s in MacCready’s eyes.

He doesn’t think. Doesn’t need to, not anymore, not as he leans forward. His turn to duck his head low, burying his face into the crook of MacCready’s shoulder. Breathes  _in_.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and presses a gentle kiss against MacCready’s neck. Just the softest press of his mouth, more tender than anything in his life, and he all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears and the hitch-flutter of MacCready’s breath as he presses another, right on a thrumming pulse point on his throat.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” he says like a promise, voice low, rumbling in his throat, trailing kisses all up and down MacCready’s neck. Feather-light traces of his mouth against the growing warmth of MacCready’s skin, brushing against the thrum of his heart. Whispers words he doesn’t even think about, praise and affection and love in equal measure.  _Reverent_ , committing it to memory, the way MacCready’s pulse races under his skin, the way his breathing comes out funny when Hancock presses a kiss, right under his ear, at the edge of his jawline, on his chin. Every breath, every gentle, careful kiss; a love letter, mouthed tenderly on MacCready’s skin, breathed in like a prayer.

One of Hancock’s free hand moves of it’s own accord. Takes one of MacCready’s, the one he isn’t leaning back on, takes it to Hancock’s chest and presses it, right there, right against his heart. Hopes, prays, that it’s enough, that somehow it can transmit everything he feels, has  _felt_ , for over a year now.  _I want to give you everything_ , and  _love, can I call you that, it’s all I feel and all I’ve got_. (He has a feeling, that for once, it’s enough. By god, it’s enough.)

“You’re a friggin’  _sap_ ,” he hears MacCready say, can feel the vibration of MacCready’s voice against his lips, wrecked and giddy on affection, embarrassed but in the best of ways.

Hancock grins stupidly into the crook of MacCready’s neck. Lifts his head again, meets MacCready’s eyes, and then kisses the corner of MacCready’s mouth, each corner.

“Only for you, darlin’.” Hancock says, fingers still around MacCready’s hand, pressed to his heart, and MacCready squeezes  _back_ when he moves in, and kisses Hancock again.

They kiss in earnest. Heads tilted, mouths slick and warm and chaste but it’s the most intimate thing in the world, the most precious. Hancock’s free hand comes to cup the back of MacCready’s head, gnarled and roughened fingers through wasteland-dusty hair, and MacCready makes a sound against Hancock’s mouth, melts against his touch, in a way that makes Hancock feel giddy. There’s some kind of poetry, right here, some kind of finite infinity in the way MacCready’s mouth moves against his, eyelashes fluttered shut. His chest hurts, from all the love he’s trying to contain, and not quite able to.

It’s not enough. It’s too much. Both their eyes open right as MacCready’s elbow buckles, on the arm he’s leaning on, and then their mouths miss each other and they tumble onto the bed; Hancock awkwardly bent forward while still sitting, head on MacCready’s chest and his own aching from the weird position. MacCready, staring up at the ceiling, hair messy.

And then they both lift their heads, meet each other’s eyes, and they  _laugh_  hard enough that everything hurts in a different way.

“Think we’re forgettin’ basic function, here.” Hancock chuckles.

MacCready snorts, grinning. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Hancock smirks. “What, from the gunshot? I’ve had worse, y’know.”

“Nah,” MacCready waves off, cockily, “From thinkin’.”

“ _Ass,_ ” Hancock swats at him, grunting only a little as he shifts so that he can lie on MacCready’s chest more comfortably. Plants his chin right on MacCready’s rib. “Dooon’t care.”

MacCready swats at him, peering at him from under his hand. “Get off, your chin’s sharp as hell.”

“Oh, I can get off alright. Th’ question is, can I get  _you_  off?” Hancock’s answer comes almost immediately, as he props himself up on his arms, and.

His breath hitches, a little. MacCready lifts his forearm, their eyes meeting, realization in both of them — because Hancock’s arms are propped on either side of MacCready, and MacCready’s below him, eyes wide, pupils blown out, lips kissed-red and glistening and gorgeous. A different kind of warmth gathers in Hancock, and MacCready’s face goes into a new shade of red Hancock didn’t even think he’d be capable of.

The old fear comes back, a pang of panic in his chest —  _shouldn’t have said that, what the fuck are you doing, he’s gonna regret this and he’s gonna leave you because you’re gonna fuck up like you always do_  — until he hears MacCready breathe out below him. Blinks, and feels the blood rush south as MacCready’s eyes go half-mast, looking somehow both embarrassed and attractive as hell.

“Y’know, we, uh. We never finished what happened.” MacCready says, sounding dazed and a little embarrassed, but Hancock’s been around enough to know exactly what desire looks like, and MacCready’s eyes say  _everything,_ even as they flicker a little nervously between Hancock and the wall. 

His tongue darts out. Licks his lips, just a little. 

Hancock’s brain shorts out.

“Think we should finish that.” Hancock agrees dumbly, and holy shit, his voice is  _already_  wrecked at just the thought of it. Lust and desire and affection, and he nearly dies when he sees MacCready’s Adam’s apple Bobbing, swallowing hard. “We should definitely, definitely finish that. It’s th’ law now. Decree of the mayor.”

MacCready’s eyes widen a little, and then snorts, grinning hard, covering his eyes with his palm. Seeing MacCready smile just makes everything  _better,_ desire increasing tenfold alongside his affection _._ “God, no, nevermind, that sucked, get out — “

“Oh, I know something I can suck.” Hancock counters, regaining his confidence and waggling his brows, barks out a laugh when MacCready uncovers his face and rolls his eyes. “ _C’mon,_ as if you’re so smart. Stuck with me now, after all.”

MacCready’s eyes  _shine_ , a twinkle in them like the stars, stealing away all of Hancock’s air and replacing it with a tenderness Hancock’s never felt before. And then strong, calloused fingers come up. Touches, cradles the back of Hancock’s neck shyly, turns Hancock into putty, delicate and protective in equal measure and he says, voice rough and low with affection, “Only for you.”

_Yeah_ , Hancock thinks, as he shuts down the rest of his brain and ducks down.  Kisses MacCready, and then again for good measure, like a luxury. He tastes his smile on his mouth and feels everything good, everything right, in the world. 

_Always you_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not seen: maccready walkin out the next day with his neck completely covered and red as a tato, hancock sippin his morning brew out on the balcony wearing nothing but maccready's duster and his underwear, daisy lobbing a newspaper at him, lee and karan askin irma if there's a way to scrub their minds of the noises they heard last night
> 
> IT'S DONE!!!!!!! this was supposed to be a short conflict resolution chapter bc i've been feelin uninspired but i wanted to finish at least ONE multichapter fic this year and this one seemed easiest. and the it just..... turned into an almost 12k monster oops. this may just be the fluffiest thing i've ever written, i was listening to moulin rouge's Your Song and Come What May and had 2 take a break halfway thru bc i got so flustered............. why am i like this...................  
> (ps. this fic's title is from corinne bailey rae's Like A Star! please listen while thinking of these two. get consumed by feelings)
> 
> ANYWAY I HOPE U GUYS ENJOY !!! may this set the ball rollin for more mac/hancock works bc these two are so so good 2gether.  
> everytime u leave a kudos and comment i gain a little piece of joy in my heart


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